


The Blunt Edge

by Weltschmerzer



Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Lingerie, M/M, Prostitution, Stabbing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weltschmerzer/pseuds/Weltschmerzer
Summary: Ryou meets a stranger at a bar.
Relationships: Bakura Ryou/Yami Marik
Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927633
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	The Blunt Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings. This is _heavy_ non-con. If you are not prepared for that, do not read this fic. 
> 
> I've actually written neither Yami Malik nor this pairing before, even though I very passively enjoy it, so I was excited to try it out. Bakura makes a cameo for about two seconds but doesn't play a role in anything else, so I didn't tag him. This was cobbled together from a ton of different Kinktober prompts, so I'm including it in the collection even though it's not for a specific day, but among the ones I used were public sex, lingerie, prostitution, and non-con.

Ryou fidgeted in his seat, and tried not to look over his shoulder. It was hot in the bar; perhaps because it was underground or because the lights were so intense, sweat trickled to the nape of his neck, wetting the hair that clung to his skin.

He was terribly nervous. Ryou had tried to pretend otherwise when he’d flashed the fake ID at the bouncer, when he’d slipped inside through the throng of bodies to a seat at the bar, but he couldn’t help the knot of anxiety that festered at the base of his throat as he waited for the designated meeting time to arrive.

Ryou had never met up with anyone from the Internet before, nor had he ever had to use his fake ID. He had hoped the person who had contacted him would choose a love hotel for some privacy, but the address he’d been sent had led him deep into the belly of Shinjuku to this place instead.

Worrying his lower lip, he checked the time on his phone, and let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. It was only 10:57. He had at least three more minutes until anyone looking for him would show up.

“Jeez, you’re still waiting?”

Ryou jolted in surprise, trepidation mounting in his veins. He was met with the sight of the bartender—a friendly looking man with a terrible dye job—leaning over the table. “A—Ah, you scared me,” he exhaled. “Um, yes. But I got here pretty early.”

The bartender hummed, turning back to his drinks. “Hope she doesn’t stand you up, dude,” he said. “Hey, since you seem alright—if she doesn’t show, it’s on the house, alright? Just ask for Katsuya.”

Ryou nodded, grateful. He had the discretion not to blurt out that the person who would come to meet him was a man; it would only make things unnecessarily awkward. And besides, since he’d described himself as wearing golden jewelry over text, maybe the man who’d solicited him would show up in women’s clothing and Ryou wouldn’t have to explain anything.

His phone buzzed with a text. He swiped quickly to open it, but it was only Bakura, asking him about the previous night’s math homework. Ryou didn’t answer, gaze drawn instead to the time above the notification, which now read 10:59. Sighing, he let the screen go black. He could just make out his reflection—the clumpy mascara clinging to his lashes, the light gloss that coated his lips. Under his loose button-down and trousers, the cheap lingerie he’d been told to wear itched.

His thumb clicked down on the home button again. Before his eyes, the numbers on the top of the screen shifted. It was 11:00.

“So, Ryou,” a low voice breathed into his ear from beside him. “You showed up after all.”

Ryou let out a shrill yelp and jerked away instinctively, chest squeezing with panic. The movement sent the stool rocking, but he managed to steady himself with his hands before anything too drastic happened, clinging onto the counter for what felt like dear life.

Annoyed—both at himself for overreacting so much and with whoever had given him such a fright—he turned towards the interloper, and then immediately forced back his words. The man seated next to him, leaning casually on the countertop, wore dangling gold earrings, a choker, and bracelets that rolled up his both forearms. His dull, light eyes, elongated by black liner, were fixed on Ryou with some interest.

“Oh,” Ryou began, tongue heavy in his mouth. “You’re—”

“On time?” the man interrupted, resting his chin on the flat of his palm. “Yes, of course I am. I organised this meeting in the first place. But you were worried about that, weren’t you? You checked your phone at least five times. I was beginning to think you were going to pull a runner.”

Ryou shivered. Unconsciously, his fingers knotted in his lap. “How long have you been here?” he questioned, trying to infuse his tone with as much calm as he could.

The man shrugged. “Long enough,” he said. “I needed to be sure you would actually turn up. It’s not so often that someone so pretty makes themselves so easily _available_ to a stranger, you know. How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t take the money and run?”

That was a fair point. Ryou had been extremely fortunate to find someone who was willing to pay in advance for a meeting that they had no guarantee would actually place. Even now, he wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t just collected his payment and deleted the listing.

When he didn’t reply, the man grinned. “My name is Marik,” he said, extending a hand to Ryou. “Though I suppose here it’s more polite to go by last names at first, isn’t it?”

“Whichever way you prefer is fine,” Ryou said, reaching out to shake Marik’s hand. It was cold to the touch—the man’s long fingers were delicate and tapered, thin like a spider’s limbs. “But—if that’s fine, then it's nice to meet you, Marik.”

Marik squeezed his hand so hard Ryou nearly winced. Before it got to be too much, though, he let go, folding his own on the countertop. “So tell me,” he said. “Are you usually in the business of selling yourself online, or is this a new venture?”

Ryou blanched. “Please keep your voice down,” he urged, eyes darting to where the bartender was standing, mere feet away from them. “I—I’m underage.”

“Yes, and you’re at a bar,” Marik said, dismissive, as his gaze slid to follow Ryou’s. “You’re breaking the law regardless. Don’t you think it’s naughty for a high schooler to behave like that?”

Looking back at him, Ryou frowned. “You chose the meeting place,” he whispered. “So then—wouldn’t you also be behaving badly?” He paused, wary of causing undue offense, and hastily added, “Hypothetically, I mean.”

Marik leaned forward. “Of course,” he replied, his choker glinting under the overhead light. “Always. But I don’t have a problem admitting it.”

Ryou blinked, surprised by the easy admission. He’d expected more of a fight, or at least more flirty banter, but he supposed Marik just wasn’t really the type. “I’ve never done this before,” he confessed in turn, peering up at the older man from beneath his thick lashes. “But I had to make this month’s rent on time, or else they’d kick me out.”

“So your first thought was casual prostitution,” Marik said, letting out a sardonic chuckle. “Problem-solving in action. But it’s understandable, really, with the economy how it is.”

“It was the only thing I could think of on such short notice,” Ryou said, though he knew the explanation was pathetic. He wasn’t particularly in the mood to recount the story of his father’s late checks, and he was sure Marik had no interest in it regardless of whether he said anything or not.

Marik laughed again. The sound discomfited Ryou—it was a hollow, unnatural thing, more like someone’s best approximation of what a laugh should sound like rather than any genuine expression of amusement. “You’re a funny one,” he said, once he was done. “I like that.”

Ryou hadn’t intended to make a joke, and he certainly didn’t think his current predicament was amusing, but rather than voice his objections and risk upsetting Marik he nodded in meek agreement, compelling his lips to curl into a smile.

There was a brief pause during which neither of them moved, both preoccupied with seizing the other up. Then, Marik said, “Since you’re wearing the makeup, I presume you came appropriately dressed.”

Having almost forgotten about what he was wearing beneath his clothes, Ryou nodded in surprise, and his cheeks flooded with heat. “I bought something with the extra you sent me,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure about the colour. It’s not really—I mean, I’m not sure if it looks right or not.”

Marik hummed. “Then let’s go find out,” he said, slipping off the stool. “Unless you’re interested in being ogled by the bartender for the rest of the evening.”

Ryou shot a curious glance at Katsuya before he followed, shoving his phone into his pocket rising to his feet on unsteady legs. He hadn’t realised when they were sitting down, but Marik was taller than him by a good few inches, and the wild, untamed spikes of his hair made him appear even taller. “Where do you want to—um,” he started lamely, too overwhelmed by embarrassment to finish his sentence.

“I have the perfect place in mind,” Marik said, and grasped Ryou’s wrist in his long fingers. “Come, let me show you.”

Allowing himself to be pulled, Ryou kept his face turned to the floor and avoided any inquisitive stares directed their way as Marik dragged him out of the bar and through the club. Loud, cheap music resonated around him, the thrum of the bass moving the ground beneath his feet to vibrate.

At the walk’s end here was a door, off to the side of the wide expanse of floor space; Marik stopped in front of it and turned the knob with his free hand, the room’s bare, dingy interior illuminated by the flashing lights that circled above.

“Our hotel for the evening,” Marik said, and stepped forward to hold the door open for Ryou to proceed through. “Charming, right?”

Ryou’s throat went dry. “Here?” he managed, taken aback. “But there’s no lock, and it’s—there are people right there.”

“Good observation,” Marik said, teeth bared in a cheerful grimace. It was probably supposed to be a grin, but there was nothing happy about it. “I’m almost impressed. After you, Ryou.”

Chest tight, Ryou shifted his weight between his feet, trying to convey just how badly he’d prefer they go somewhere else through plaintive glances. When Marik remained stony-faced, unsympathetic to his silent pleading, Ryou’s heart sank. He had no choice but to follow the directive, unless he wanted to be out his rent money. Marik had paid for him, and at least for the night, Ryou was subject to his whims. Reluctantly, he looked over his shoulder one final time at the exit, steeled himself, and then headed inside.

The moment he entered, Ryou heard the door click shut behind him. There was a dim light hanging from the ceiling that cast muddy radiation on the room, which must have originally been an unfurnished storage closet. Other than the cobwebs that dripped from every corner, crawling down the walls in a grey haze, it was completely empty.

“I’ve been here a few times before tonight,” Marik started. His voice drew Ryou’s gaze from his observation of the room and towards him; he was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “I was exaggerating a bit, earlier. Really, it’s not my _favorite_ place in the world. It’s so bright, with such clear air; so close to the surface. If you can believe it, the club is a little too sanitized for my tastes. Too many cobwebs, and not enough spiders.”

Ryou tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It was a habit he still hadn’t managed to break, though he’d tried often in the past. “I like spiders, too,” he said. “B—But usually I prefer seeing them in their natural habitats.”

“Oh?” Marik tilted his head, and a curious expression took shape on his face. “So you don’t think this could be a spider’s ‘natural habitat?’ Why?”

“N—No, I don’t. Because it wouldn’t be right,” Ryou answered, softly. He looked around again, an uncomfortable feeling building in his stomach. “Marik, why did you take me here?”

Marik sighed. “So _impatient_ ,” he chided, sounding rather disappointed. “I thought we could have some fun with foreplay, but if you’re so eager to get down to business, then so be it.” Nudging his jaw in Ryou’s direction, he said, “Strip. Leave your clothes on the floor; don’t bother trying to keep them clean, it’s no use.”

Ryou nodded, somewhat relieved that the evening’s events were returning to their intended course even with the unconventional setting. Without much fanfare, he unbuttoned his shirt, and let it drop to the floor. The translucent red bralette he’d worn was dark against his skin, and exposed the subtle curve of his chest, which peeked out from beneath the fabric. When Marik said nothing, Ryou shucked his shoes and started on his trousers, tugging them off leg by leg until they, too, landed in a heap on the ground. The underwear he had bought on Marik’s instruction were a simple lace pair, just as red as the top half of the outfit, which hugged his thighs and thin hips.

Marik let out a quiet, satisfied noise. His gaze lingered on the meeting of Ryou’s pale flesh and the straps that wrapped over his shoulders. “It suits you,” he commented. “The colour.”

“Ah, I’m glad,” Ryou said, awkward under the intense scrutiny, and resisted the urge to cover himself back up. “Like I said, I wasn’t sure.”

“No, I think it suits you quite well, actually,” Marik said, catlike eyes narrowing as he smiled. “Come here—let me see you properly.”

“O—Okay.”

Unsteadily, Ryou stumbled towards him. The ground was cold beneath the soles of his bare feet, and each step made him cringe, toes curling away on instinct. By the time he stopped, only inches away from Marik, he was shivering. He couldn’t tell whether it was from the frigid, stale air or the predatory way Marik was eyeing him; probably, it was both.

Marik took a step forward and grasped Ryou’s jaw, his spindly fingers jerking his chin up so he was forced to look at him directly. “So _pretty_ ,” he purred. “The pictures you posted were pretty, too—that’s why I chose you. I knew you would show up. You’re just so _docile_.”

Ryou sucked in a breath and urged himself not to squirm. The older man’s grip was so harsh it hurt.

Fishing in his back pocket, Marik withdrew something. In the low light Ryou couldn’t tell what it was, except for the fact that it glinted, light bouncing off its surface. Then, he grinned, and stepped away from the entrance to the side of the room. “Lean up against the door,” Marik said. “Face first, naturally.”

Too nervous to question why, Ryou obeyed. He shuffled to the door and bent over, cheek up against the wood, arching his back as he presumed Marik wanted him to. When hands settled on his hips, he knew he’d assumed correctly. He couldn’t see Marik’s face any longer, but Ryou could hear his heavy breaths, could feel the rough pads of his fingers as they roamed the expanse of his back

Then, Marik leaned over him, pushing his hips into Ryou’s ass. His cock, which was at half mast already, was hot and heavy against the lace. “Feel free to scream,” he murmured, licking the shell of his ear. “They can’t hear you.”

Ryou was on the verge of looking over his shoulder to reassure himself when—on the other side of his neck—he felt something cold and sharp dig into his skin. He wanted to turn around to look but, pinned to the door by Marik’s larger frame and the object jamming into him, he couldn’t move. Quietly, so quietly he hardly heard the words himself, he breathed out, “Marik, what is that?”

Marik’s breath was hot against his flesh when he laughed, his clothed erection shoved between Ryou’s thighs. “That’s the blunt edge, Ryou,” he said. “It can’t hurt you, unless I push really, really hard.”

There was a ‘blunt’ edge, which meant the other side—“ _Marik_ ,” Ryou exhaled, panicking now, perspiration beading on his forehead. “No, _no_ , please—you don’t want to do this—!”

Marik nibbled on his ear, and pressed the instrument into his neck with greater force. “Relax,” he said, his unoccupied hand squeezing Ryou’s waist “I’m not just going to kill you. That would be too easy. And boring. And a waste of both of our time.”

“S—Someone, _help,_ ” Ryou begged, desperate to wriggle out of his assailant’s grip, but each convulsion only brought the knife closer to his neck. Marik was far larger than him, and with the blade pressed to his throat there was nowhere he could realistically turn to for respite.

Sighing, Marik released Ryou’s hips. “I already told you,” he said, his voice accompanied by the faint drag of a zipper. “They can’t hear you. The music’s too loud.”

Overwhelmed by frustration and terror, tears welled in Ryou’s eyes, slipping past his lids and down his cheeks. He tried not to let his shoulders shake, but he trembled anyway, too overwrought to stop himself. “M—Marik,” he sobbed weakly. “I—I’m sorry, I won’t do this again, I promise I’ll never do it again, s—so please let me go, d—don’t hurt me.”

“Ah, you know, that’s not really the right strategy to use with me,” Marik said, casually, as if he were discussing the weather. Without warning, he slid the red panties down Ryou’s thighs, letting them crumple to the floor. “It only turns me on more when they cry.”

Ryou’s legs wobbled, barely able to support him, as he wept into the door. “Marik, please,” he whimpered, his throat thick with tears. “ _Please don't do this._ ”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Marik leaned back. For a split second Ryou thought his pleas had worked, and then his eyes went wide with panic as he felt the head of his cock nudging at his dry hole, trying to press inside. Even that little bit was agonising—without any lube, or even spit, the stretch felt like he was being ripped apart.

“You’re such a tight little slut,” Marik panted, bearing down harder, the push forcing more of his thick shaft into Ryou’s ass. The knife on the side of his neck prevented Ryou from even crying out, silencing the agony bubbling up in his chest. “I bet you’re a virgin, too. They— _hah_ —always struggle the hardest. ”

Crying too hard to speak, Ryou could do nothing but stay still and take it as Marik shoved his cock deeper inside him until he was buried balls deep. It actually wasn’t the first time he’d been fucked, but in the past he’d gotten plenty of preparation beforehand, had taken it at his own, very gradual pace. This time, his insides were being churned up, his stomach clenching to try to force the unwanted intrusion out—it was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced before.

Marik stayed there for a moment, completely still. His chest heaved against the arch of Ryou’s back. Then, he hissed, “Don’t move.” The blade that had been pressed against Ryou’s neck moved, and then something sharper was digging into his throat, penetrating his soft flesh ever so lightly. It was a searing pain, different from the tearing of the dick in his ass, but just as sharp—and Ryou could feel his own blood drip from the incision and trickle down to the junction of his shoulder.

Ryou let out a shriek, and instinctively jerked. He stopped only when he thought of the warning Marik had just provided: _don’t move_. Now, he understood why. If he did anything Marik disliked, he’d be dead.

Huffing out a chuckle of amusement, Marik licked his ear again, and began to thrust in earnest. Each pump of his hips made Ryou’s chest burn and his loosened hole ache, and with it came the light slide of the blade against his skin. Blood oozed from the wound, and from his battered ass; tears blurred his vision and wet his dry, cracked lips. And yet despite all of that, heat curled in his belly, deep and low and shameful.

“It h—hurts,” Ryou whined, though he realised it was useless, and the words would likely have the opposite of their intended effect. “It _hurts_.”

Marik laughed again, but the hand on Ryou’s hip slid down to between his thighs, curling around his cock. “But look, you’re hard,” he murmured. “Doesn’t that mean you like it, Ryou?”

Ryou would have shaken his head were he not so terrified of the knife keeping him in place. “ _No_ ,” he protested, eyes squeezing shut. The deafening music reverberated around him, oozing in from the crack in the door. Faintly, he could hear people's muttered conversation just outside. “I don’t like it at all." His voice grew in volume, in rage, in desperation. "I _hate_ it, I hate you—!”

Marik’s delicate hand began to jerk him quickly in time with his thrusts, which grew sloppier and less controlled. Behind Ryou, his breath quickened. “I think,” he said, gleefully, the knife cutting into Ryou’s shoulder now, “that you came here because you’re a filthy whorewho wanted this exact scenario to happen. I think you knew exactly what you were getting into.”

Ryou bawled, choking out a constant stream of _no_ s and _stop_ s. Even so, the more he denied it the tighter and hotter his stomach clenched, and then in a matter of minutes he was coming violently into Marik’s hand, his release wetting those thin, fine-boned fingers. His head burned, rendering him able only to inhale and exhale as he recovered from his climax, lightheaded and dizzy.

"See?" Marik jeered, barely audible under the pulsing beat, and carved a little circle below Ryou's jaw. "All whores are honest in the end." 

It was only a few more brutal thrusts before Marik was coming, too, knife's point digging hard into the skin of his shoulder. The flow of his seed into Ryou’s hole stung, burning against his torn up, bloody walls as he forced Ryou to milk him for all he was worth, filling him completely. Excess dripped down his legs, and—staring down at it—Ryou was disgusted by its pink, mottled colour.

When Marik was finally satisfied, he pulled out, and took a step back. Gently, almost reverently, he drew the knife away from Ryou’s neck. “Oh poor, pretty Ryou,” he tutted. “Lighten up. That wasn’t _so_ terrible.”

Bereft of any response—of anything to say at all, of any way to make sense of what had happened—Ryou tried to gather as much strength as he could. When he felt he could move without throwing up, he knelt silently and pulled up his underwear. Then, not looking at Marik, he scooped up his clothes into his arms.

“Leaving so soon? Well, I understand,” Marik sighed. Ryou wouldn’t— _couldn't_ —look at his face, but he was certain that the older man was grinning. “Don’t be a stranger, Ryou. I’m always available if you want to chat.”

The sound of his voice spurred Ryou into action. Seized by a boldness he didn’t know he had, he threw the door open and ran out into the club. He didn’t care that he was nearly naked, that he was bleeding, that cum stained his thighs. The only thing that mattered was the glowing exit sign at the back. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks, the push of bodies against his bleeding shoulder rubbed up against the lacerations the knife had left, and the loud music made his head pound, but he didn’t stop.

Finally, Ryou darted past the bouncer, up the stairs, and emerged into the cool summer air. His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto the pavement only a few feet from the final step. Bile rose in his throat as he laid there, curled into a pathetic ball, and he heaved, but nothing came out. He felt as if he'd been drained of all he had.

Buried under the pile of his things, a sustained buzzing sounded. Blindly, Ryou groped around, and somehow succeeded in withdrawing his cellphone from where he’d hastily shoved into his pants' pocket earlier. Not bothering to check who it was, he pressed 'answer' and raised it to his ear. “Hello?” he breathed out.

“Well, it took you long enough,” the voice on the other end of the line replied, an annoyed edge to its low timbre. “I thought you were supposed to be here by one. I’ve been calling for thirty minutes.”

Ryou would’ve sobbed with relief had he not already exhausted all the tears he could produce. “ _Bakura_ ,” he managed. Despite his best efforts, his voice shook. “C—can you come pick me up? Please?”

There was a drawn-out pause. “Ryou,” Bakura said at last, taken aback. “Jesus, what happened? You're—”

“N—nothing, I’m fine,” Ryou lied, though he knew it was unconvincing. Folded in his lap, his hands were trembling. “Please, can you just pick me up? Please. I won’t ask ever again, okay, just—please.”

It was obvious that Bakura was curious—a heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by their breathing—but much to Ryou's gratitude he didn't probe further. “Yeah, okay,” he replied. “Just text me the address. I'll head out now.”

Ryou began to type the information in, his stiff fingers moving slow across the keyboard. When he clicked send he got an immediate thumbs up in response and then the screen went black, signifying that Bakura had hung up on him.

While he waited for the familiar grey minivan to round the corner, Ryou sat at the curb, his knees held tightly to his chest. Passersby were shooting him odd, disgruntled looks, but he couldn't bear to meet their judgmental eyes, or to get dressed again and dirty his clothes with his turgid blood. Instead, he looked out at the cars that drove by in front of him, crossing the busy intersection that fed into the highway and stretched beyond to the rest of the city. The sight of his own regular, boring world soothed his nerves—he was beginning to feel normal again, removed from the bizarre nightmare he’d just fled.

And then, for the briefest of moments, he felt a weight behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow curl around his silhouette, its black outline stark under the streetlight. Slowly, and with much trepidation, his gaze inched towards it. 

But by the time Ryou had turned to look, it was already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I would especially appreciate feedback given that this is my first time writing these two, but more than anything else, I hope any readers enjoyed the fic. Thank you!


End file.
